


Whisper a Little Prayer for Me, My Baby

by triedunture



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bar Room Brawl, Black Eye, Blood and Injury, Bruises, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23786632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: What happens after Aziraphale gives Crowley the thermos of holy water. Swinging Soho, a fight in a gay bar, and the result.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 61
Kudos: 339
Collections: To The World - Good Omens Anniversary Exchange





	Whisper a Little Prayer for Me, My Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [racketghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/racketghost/gifts).



_London, 1967_

Aziraphale left the Bentley behind in its neon-washed side street, his hands in fists at his sides, his resolve tightening in his belly. Don't look back, he told himself firmly. If you look at him now, you will crumble. He walked through the bustling Soho night, aimless at first, wanting only to put some distance between himself and Crowley. They had been too close in the car; Aziraphale could still smell the tang of Crowley's aftershave on the air. 

After a suitable distance had been achieved, Aziraphale began looking for a place to go—not the bookshop, he was too raw for that. The idea of sitting alone in a place where he and Crowley had often sat together made his middle turn cold. He wanted some time to clear his head and calm his heart. He wanted to be among humans but not _with_ them. He wanted a drink.

He chose a bar that was a mere slip of a thing, barely six feet deep from the flung-open French doors to the back wall, no more than seven stools crowded up against the zinc-top bar. Already at this early hour, the tiny place was packed with as much humanity as it could hold. All men, Aziraphale noticed in that way one notices something as unremarkable as a flock of pigeons in a square; Aziraphale had worked in Soho for over a century and a half, after all. 

Aziraphale considered expending a small miracle to get himself a stool situated toward the end of the bar, but after the flurry of miracles he'd enacted that day to procure the holiest of waters and translocate himself inside a parked Bentley, he thought it best to lay low for the moment in case Heaven's eyes were turned toward him. Instead, he waited for a vacancy to open up naturally, claimed his seat, and ordered a glass of red wine. The bartender, as French as the doors, poured him a generous helping before slipping away to serve the other clamoring patrons. 

Aziraphale toyed with the stem of his wineglass as the crowd swelled around him, pressing close. There was a record player spinning behind the bar balanced atop a wooden crate. Jim Morrison was exhorting the listener to light his fire, which of course made Aziraphale think of Crowley.

He could only hope the demon would be careful with the thermos. Aziraphale would never forgive himself if— Oh, he couldn't bear to even think of it. He stared into the depths of his glass. Crowley was too brilliantly alive to ever be drowned out of existence, surely. 

He sipped at his wine and grimaced. It was the sort of vintage that Crowley would have some strong words about, were he to ever drink it. Aziraphale considered changing it into one of Malbecs he preferred, but again the lingering fear of Heavenly retribution kept him in check. He drank his cheap wine and listened to the loud music and let himself be jostled by the chattering mass of humanity. 

The angel sat in the Soho bar for quite some time, long enough for The Doors to be exchanged for The Mamas & The Papas on the record player, long enough for every man in the tiny bar to leave and be replaced by another man twice over. Aziraphale nursed his glass of wine until there was nothing left, and was contemplating ordering something else when a man jostled him rather badly. If Aziraphale hadn't possessed angelic reflexes, his empty wine glass would surely have shattered on the bartop, but he caught it just in time.

"Sorry 'bout that," said the man at his side, loudly, and much too close to Aziraphale's ear. "Like bloody sardines in here, eh?" He swiveled his head and looked properly at Aziraphale, his tipsy grin widening. 

Aziraphale knew what the man was seeing: the tight blond curls, the perfectly tied tartan cravat, the heartbroken eyes. He looked very much like someone who frequented such establishments for the usual reasons instead of ethereal ones. 

"Let me buy you another," the man said, gesturing to the clutched glass.

"Oh, thank you," said Aziraphale, "but no need. I'd finished it already."

"Still." The man leaned closer. "Could use another, looks like."

"Mack, are we going?" hollered another man by the open doors. There seemed to be quite the crowd milling about there, waiting on him.

"Inna minute!" Mack yelled back before returning his attention to Aziraphale. "So? What do you say?"

Aziraphale smiled: kindly, sadly. The man did not have red hair, and certainly did not have yellow eyes, and his nose was not sharp nor his eyebrows particularly expressive, but there was something about him that reminded Aziraphale of Crowley because everything in that moment reminded him of Crowley.

"Thank you," he repeated, "but I couldn't possibly." He glanced at the doorway. "Have a lovely night with your friends." 

Mack gave him an even wider grin and leaned his hip against the bar as if settling in for the long haul. "Fairly lovely already," he said.

Aziraphale gave a light laugh, glanced down at his empty glass. On any other night, he might be flattered, might even respond with a flirtatious comment of his own. But his heart wasn't in it; it had been left behind in a passenger seat.

The man at Aziraphale's side seemed to sense this, for he rapped his knuckles against the zinc bartop in a gesture of finality, or perhaps defeat, and nodded. 

"Right. Well—" he began to say, but was interrupted by some commotion by the door. He and Aziraphale both turned their heads to see what was happening that short distance away. "The hell?" Mack muttered.

Aziraphale's stomach dropped. He could see above the heads in the crowd that bright red mop of hair that could only belong to one creature in all of existence. Crowley had arrived, and was causing the commotion by shoving his way through the thick press of bodies as he made his way towards Aziraphale.

"One side, one side," he said to the assembled even as they protested and muttered. The twin black mirrors of his glasses swung about before landing on Aziraphale. "There y'are, angel, knew I'd find y'event'ly." He slithered his way through couples and under arms before washing ashore behind Aziraphale's stool, which meant Aziraphale had to twist himself 'round to face him.

Crowley brought with him such a strong smell of whiskey that at first Aziraphale thought he'd had a drink spilled on his black turtleneck while cutting through the crowd, but no. He stared in wonder as Crowley swayed back and forth before him. He had no doubt that if the sunglasses were removed, he'd see the bright, full-yellow glaze that Crowley's eyes inevitably took on when deep in his cups. Aziraphale hadn't seen him like this since that night in Rome, when they'd drank a full three jugs of wine apiece and ended up swimming in a fountain after dinner.

"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale hissed at him, aware of the stares they were garnering, especially from the man at his side who'd been interrupted by Crowley's entrance. "And in such a state!"

"Wha'state issat?" Crowley asked, swaying even more.

"You're drunk!"

"'m not."

"You are."

"Yes, al'ight. A bit. But angel—" 

Aziraphale held up a hand, eyes darting about. More curious glances were being shot their way. "I would rather we didn't do this... _whatever it is_ here, thank you."

"Oh! Oh!" Crowley howled. "You wouldn't? Y'just going to sit in my car and give me the thing and say _too fast_ as if I hav'n't been plodding along like a snail for cent'ries and then—"

"Look," said Mack, who Aziraphale had quite forgotten for a moment, "he said he doesn't want to talk to you, mate. Why don't you leave the gentleman alone?"

Crowley swung to face the man, his mouth hanging open. He stared for nearly a full minute before saying, "Who in Somewhere are you?"

Mack was understandably confused by Crowley's choice of words, but he gamely replied, "I'm the guy who's buying this one another glass of wine."

"I really must insist you don't," Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley looked between the man and Aziraphale. Several times. The shock on his face was at once comical and heartbreaking. "He's gettin' you wine?" he asked Aziraphale. "Tha's my job. Isn't it?"

"Crowley—" Aziraphale sighed.

"Oh, I see," Mack said. "Keeps popping up like a bad penny, won't take 'no' for an answer?" He lowered his voice and spoke again too closely into Aziraphale's ear. "I know the type. I can handle him for you; no need to worry your pretty head."

Aziraphale gestured placatingly at the mortal. "No, really, it's fine. This is all a misunderstanding. My friend here has just had too much to drink."

"I've had _just enough_ to drink," Crowley said. "Enough to think, sod sitting in m'flat, I've got to find that angel and ask him what he bloody well meant by too _bloody_ fast!"

Aziraphale paled. He couldn't seem to form any words in the face of all this. He left an unfortunate vacuum that was ripe to be filled by the stranger.

"Right, time for you to get lost," said Mack, and actually grabbed Crowley's thin arm. 

Crowley stared at the man's hand where it gripped his elbow, then stared at the man himself. "Or what?" he demanded. "You'll make me?"

"Crowley, don't," Aziraphale said. He had never seen Crowley actually harm a human being before; mischief and temptations, certainly, but never outright cruelty. And it would be so easy for him to break such a fragile creature. Aziraphale didn't want to think him capable of it. 

His fear must have shown on his face, because Crowley laughed. "Oh, don'worry, angel." He flashed a wobbly grin, all long teeth. "It'll be a fair fight, promise. Level...level pitch, level ground. Wha'ver s'pposed to be level."

Mack snorted. "Don't think you're in any state to be making threats, mate. Reckon I've got a few stone on you." He tugged on Crowley's arm, more forcefully this time, causing him to nearly topple over. "But if you need to get it out of your system, I'm happy to oblige."

"Oh, really now!" cried Aziraphale, getting irritated at them both. "You're making a spectacle of yourselves, please."

"Nah, angel," Crowley drawled, " _this_ is a spec'cle," and shoved the human so that he was knocked back a step, crashing into other patrons who loudly made their feelings known. 

"Take it outside!" the French bartender called, and before Aziraphale knew what was happening, they had: both Crowley and the human tussling and throwing wild jabs as they carved a path out the door and spilled into the street.

Aziraphale wasted no time in chasing after them, though his progress was impeded by the thick crowd that was closing ranks to watch the fight. Men hooted and raised their drinks, or else shouted derisive remarks, or offered what they considered sage advice in where to apply a left hook. At last Aziraphale managed to squeeze through the humans. What he saw once he reached the inner ring of spectators was unbelievable.

Crowley, drunk as he was, seemed to be keeping his promise as far as his occult powers were concerned. He certainly wasn't using any of his innate speed or cunning. For every blow he landed on the interloper, Mack delivered two or three of his own. Aziraphale winced as Crowley took another punch to his mouth. Oh, dear, Aziraphale thought, he's actually getting quite hurt. He simply was not a fighter.

Crowley touched his fingers to his split lip, staring as they came away bloodied. His brows drew together over his dark glasses. "You don'get to buy him drinks," he slurred at his opponent, his thin fingers tapping in the center of his own chest. "'s my job, doin' that."

"Seems to me the position is available to be filled." Mack hit him again, and this time Crowley went down on the pavement. The human had the advantage of friends, and within seconds a swarm of men were kicking Crowley where he lay.

"Enough!" Aziraphale bellowed. He waded into the fight and began pulling young men off Crowley with all of his not-inconsiderable strength, tossing them aside with a bit less care than he might have usually exhibited. "Of all the ridiculous, barbaric, distasteful displays of misfounded machismo! And you!" He collared Mack before he could make an escape, growling into his flushed face. "I told you it was fine. I do not need defending." He cast a glance down at Crowley. "That goes for you as well."

Crowley's groan floated up from the pavement.

Perhaps it was Aziraphale's particular brand of righteous fury—that pure, straight-from-the-source kind that only Heaven's denizens can muster—but the human actually dropped his gaze (and his fists) and hung his head like a chastened schoolboy.

"Right," he mumbled. "Might've gotten out of hand, now that you mention it."

"Just a tad," Aziraphale said waspishly. He released the man's shirtfront and that was that; his attention was wholly on Crowley, never to return. He knelt on the pavement and surveyed the damage with a little tsk of sympathy.

Crowley lifted his head, one slitted eye staring at him through the broken lens of his dark glasses. "H'llo, angel."

"What a mess you are." Aziraphale put a gentle hand on his arm. "Come on."

"Y'should see th'other guy." Crowley's head lolled as he was dragged to his feet. "Got inna few hits of m'own, y'know."

"Not many," Aziraphale pointed out. "Here, lay your head on my shoulder. There's a chap." He flung his arm around Crowley, trying as best he could to hide his face against his neck, lest the curious humans still milling about should see his inhuman eyes. 

"Mmph." Crowley pressed close. "'m goin'to get blood on your nice white shirt."

Aziraphale spared a glance at his poor shirtfront as he helped Crowley hobble his way down the street. "I believe you already have," he said, unable to keep the snit out of his voice.

Crowley groaned again. "Y'angry with me."

Aziraphale considered that for a moment. It didn't seem worth the trouble to dispute the obvious. "Yes, I rather am."

"Y'not gon' speak to me ever again."

Aziraphale smiled into the disheveled red fall of Crowley's hair. This time, he did not offer an opinion on the subject. Let the blighter stew for a moment, he thought uncharitably. Serves him right. 

Besides, it was patently clear that Aziraphale was not leaving Crowley's side anytime soon. Crowley himself seemed to realize this, lifting his head to swivel it about, noticing that they were no longer on Dean Street and were walking (slowly) in the direction of the bookshop. "Y'takin' me home?" Crowley asked, turning to stare at Aziraphale with his one wide eye, like a taxicab missing one headlamp. "Your home, I mean t'say."

"If you know of a closer place where you can miracle yourself back to rights, please tell me. I would do it for you, of course, only—" Aziraphale hesitated. "I need to conserve my stock, as it were."

Crowley slowly laid his head in the crook of Aziraphale's neck again, quiet for a moment as they limped in tandem. "Y'think they're keepin' tabs?" he asked after they reached the corner. 

"I fear they might be," said Aziraphale.

"Then y'pro'bly shouldn't be bringin' a demon home." The misery in Crowley's voice was unmistakable. He never could dissemble with any real skill while drunk. 

"I probably shouldn't," Aziraphale agreed, but said no more on the subject. 

They turned into Aziraphale's street and reached the bookshop's front steps. Aziraphale propped up Crowley against one of the pillars that flanked the entrance while he negotiated the doorknob. Crowley lounged there like a lizard, his cheek flush on the stone, his single eye watching Aziraphale.

"Don'think I can snap myself healed ri'now, angel," he murmured. "Too damn drunk."

"So sober up," Aziraphale said as he opened the door. 

"Too drunk f'that too." Crowley worked his tongue 'round his teeth. "Though getting the shit kicked out of you does seem t'have a slight sobering effect."

"Wonderful," Aziraphale deadpanned. "So you plan to sit on my chesterfield, drunk and bleeding for the remainder of the night?"

Crowley's bloodied mouth twisted and turned in a series of moues. "Could go back to mine, get out of yr'hair." 

Aziraphale sighed and held the door open. "Get inside, you impossible creature."

All the fight must have gone out of Crowley by that point, because he slouched into the shop as meekly as Aziraphale had ever seen him do anything. His strange obedience continued as Aziraphale shut the door and ushered him to the sofa. 

"'m sorry," Crowley said, quiet in the dusty closeness of the bookshop. "About tonight. Acted like a complete bell-end, didn't I? Jus' wanted to fight _something_. Besides, m'self, I mean." He lowered himself onto the leather cushions with a hiss. "Bless it, that stings." 

Aziraphale looked down at him with unconcealed concern. He'd never known Crowley to apologize for anything. It was damnably close to asking for forgiveness, which the demon famously abhorred. He tugged at the lapel of Crowley's black jacket, tacky with drying blood. "Off with this, please. And the sweater. If the physician won't heal thyself, I will do what I can for you." 

"'m _fine_ ," Crowley groused, batting away Aziraphale's hands weakly. "Leave it. I'll heal in the morning."

"Don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale huffed. "I have some bandages and things somewhere. Leftovers from the Blitz. Never could be too prepared." He bustled away to find the ancient kit, calling over his shoulder, "You will be ready when I return, yes?"

Crowley grunted in response, but it seemed an affirmative sort of grunt, so Aziraphale accepted it. He found the dust-streaked first aid kit stuffed among the jars and boxes of the pantry, and he hurried back to the chesterfield to find Crowley, still wearing his broken sunglasses, naked to the waist and with a sheen of sweat on his brow, as if the exertion had taken the last of his strength.

"Looks worse than it is," Crowley said as Aziraphale stared open-mouthed. "Barely feel it."

Aziraphale mapped the bruises and contusions with his gaze, following the landscape of Crowley's thin body. He'd never thought of Crowley as delicate before, but then again, he'd never seen him this injured. He looked like—well, like someone who'd picked a fight and lost.

"Dear me." Aziraphale placed the kit on a cluttered table and leaned forward to remove the half-shattered glasses from Crowley's face. Crowley blinked up at him, eyes bared. Aziraphale sighed as one black eye was revealed, already darkening into a deep, ugly purple. Along with the split lip and the bruised cheek, Crowley looked a right mess, and Aziraphale told him so in no uncertain terms.

"I know." Crowley's eyes dropped to his lap. "You don't have to—" 

"Stop speaking, please," Aziraphale said. "You'll open up that cut on your lip again. Here, let me." He rummaged in the kit and produced a bottle and a linen bandage, and used the former to soak the latter, and applied it to Crowley's mouth, gently dabbing away the dried blood and grime. 

Crowley flinched at the first tentative swipe. "Fuck. Is this what humans have to go through? It's true what they say, the cure hurts worse." 

"Hush," Aziraphale whispered, concentrating on his work. "Stay still."

Miraculously, Crowley did as directed; he shut his mouth and stared ahead like a lifeless doll. When Aziraphale began to wipe the rest of his face, and directed Crowley to close his eyes so that he could clean the blood from around them, Crowley did so. They remained shut while Aziraphale applied salve and bandages to his chest and ribs. He didn't have much experience in this sort of care, but he tried to emulate what he'd seen and read about. His fingertips were light on Crowley's tender skin as he saw to the nasty cut above his brow, but even so Crowley emitted a stifled gasp of pain.

"I know it hurts," he said. "I'm doing my best to be gentle."

Crowley's lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he kept his peace. Aziraphale was just finishing when he noticed the single tear leaking from Crowley's blackened eye. The poor boy, he thought. It really must sting.

"It's done," he said, dabbing away the tear with a clean bit of gauze. "Come now, look at me. Feeling better?"

Crowley opened his eyes, yellow tinged with red. "How fast am I supposed to go, angel?" he asked. "Just tell me what speed you're going, and I'll match it."

The encouraging smile that Aziraphale had been wearing slipped off his face. "Crowley…."

"Thought I'd kept a good pace," he rushed to say. "Thought you were right behind me. On a good day, maybe right next to me. Where do you want me, Aziraphale?" Another tear spilled, this time from his good eye. "D'you even want me at all?"

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale shifted from his position hovering over Crowley to sitting beside him, his arms going around him as they had in the street, his hand on the back of Crowley's head again guiding it to lay on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Don't even ask such questions. You know how I care for you. You must know."

"Questions are kind of my thing," Crowley said, muffled into Aziraphale's neck. He sniffed. "I'm going to get snot and tears all over your nice white shirt."

"That's all right. It will go with the blood." He held Crowley close. "You do know, don't you? How—how important you are to me?"

"You wouldn't go anywhere with me," Crowley said. A fresh, hot wave of tears soaked through to Aziraphale's shoulder. "Found you drinking wine with some bloke. Just when I think I know, suddenly I don't."

"Firstly, I was not having a drink with anyone. Secondly—" Aziraphale brushed the tip of his nose through Crowley's hair. "Jealousy does not become you, Crowley."

"'Course it does. Goes right along with the sloth and the greed." 

"And lastly," Aziraphale continued, ignoring the little joke, "it was never my intention to sow doubt in you. I'm sorry. It's just—" He closed his eyes and inhaled Crowley's scent. "I couldn't be near you tonight. Sometimes I feel as if I'm balancing on the edge of a knife; one false step and I'll— Well."

"You won't fall." Crowley lifted his head, his eyes blazing with resolve. "I won't let you."

Aziraphale's brows drew together in confusion. "Oh, no. I didn't mean— Crowley, that isn't what worries me."

"Then what?" Crowley hands, battered knuckles and all, wrapped 'round Aziraphale's. Held tight. "What's the worst that can happen, then? If we both want this, why can't we—?"

"They would destroy you," Aziraphale said. It hung in the air between them, a cold, heavy weight of words. "The worst they could do to me is cast me out, I suppose. But you—"

"I don't care," Crowley said. He leaned forward, his face an eager, clear line. "I really don't. I'll take that chance; I don't care."

" _I_ do." Aziraphale clutched his hands tightly. "It's the only thing I care about, Crowley. I want you safe and secure and nothing pains me more than thinking you won't be! Why do you think I never sleep? I don't mind drifting off; it's the nightmares I can't stand. And they were all about you— You being hurt." Tears welled in Aziraphale's eyes now. "Do you understand what it cost me to give you that thermos? Knowing that it's the one thing that would—?" He clapped a hand over his shaking mouth and shook his head, unable to even say it.

"Oh, angel," Crowley murmured. "Angel, c'mere." He folded Aziraphale into his arms, his narrow whip of a body cradling him as best he could, comforting as he had been comforted. 

"And I know!" Aziraphale wailed into his thin chest. "I know it's not the only thing that can hurt you, because this—the way I keep you at arm's length—I know it's hurting you too and I don't know what to _do_ about it."

"It's all right." Thin, shaky fingers combed through Aziraphale's curls. "Don't need to do anything, not right now."

Aziraphale allowed himself to be quieted and soothed. His eyes slid closed as he listened to Crowley's heartbeat beneath his bare skin. Had they ever been as close as this? He didn't believe so. He would never have let himself become so shaken before tonight. There was something heightened about everything now, something struggling with crucial fervor to be free of the little lockbox he kept inside himself. 

He sat up, calmer now, tears drying on his cheeks, and looked at Crowley's lovely, battered face. His eyes held the sort of hopeful, terrified quality that meant he, too, had realized how many lines they had crossed tonight already. 

Crowley cleared his throat, began to disentangle his arms from Aziraphale. "Well," he said, unnecessarily. 

The gears turned in Aziraphale's mind. "I gave you the water so that you wouldn't get hurt," he said slowly, "even though I knew the water itself might be used to hurt you, in the end."

"Yeah." Crowley scratched his cheek and winced. "Paradox. Life's full of 'em."

"I've never let myself—" His gaze fell to Crowley's bloodied lips. "Never. So that you wouldn't be harmed. But perhaps—oh, I'm not making any sense, am I?"

Crowley leaned forward, his hands twitching where they rested on his knees. "Perhaps what, angel?"

Aziraphale looked away. "Perhaps it's much the same as the water. Risking one sort of danger instead of another, worse sort. Because if we continue on like this, you will certainly come to harm. You already have, haven't you?" He touched Crowley's cheek, cupping it gently in his palm, careful of the bruises. 

Crowley's eyes widened, and he made a noise like many of his little noises, inimitable and strange. 

"But if we face this," Aziraphale said, quiet and slow, still piecing together his thoughts, "together, we might— There is a chance we could—"

Crowley stayed frozen in place as if unwilling to break the spell Aziraphale was weaving. "I've locked the thermos in my flat," he said in a whisper. "I'm the only one with the combination. Precautions."

"Yes, exactly." Aziraphale nodded. "Like we have always taken, just with more at stake." His eyes clouded. "So much more." 

"It's up to you," Crowley said. His hand came up jerkily to settle atop Aziraphale's against his cheek. "Your decision. Won't rush you. Whenever, whatever you want."

"I want—" Aziraphale watched the thin shape of Crowley's injured mouth. "I want to kiss you." He licked his dry lips. His gaze flicked up to Crowley's. "I want to kiss you now."

Though he would later deny it until he was blue in the face, the truth of the matter was this: Crowley whimpered. He melted under Aziraphale's words like so much ice in a glass at the end of a cocktail party, and Aziraphale wasted no time in bringing their mouths together. 

In some ways, it was very similar to most first kisses: ungainly, a bit too much teeth, a few moments of giddy recalibration before both parties could continue in comfort. In another way, however, the kiss was quite a thing apart. How many other first kisses can claim to be conducted after six thousand years of wanting and waiting and approaching and retreating? None. And so for this reason, their first kiss was one of the best in the history of kisses.

"Ah!" Crowley winced a few minutes into the thing. He drew back and touched his abused lip, which was bleeding anew. "Sorry, ugh. Maybe we should wait 'til—"

"We shall do no such thing," Aziraphale murmured, pressing forward, his hands on Crowley's bare skin, a wide smile on his face. "I'm through with waiting, aren't you?"

Crowley stared up at him, dazed. The drop of ruby red swelled at his lip. "Yeah," he agreed. "S'ppose I am."

And Aziraphale kissed him again, not minding the blood one bit. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [anactoriatalksback](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoriatalksback/pseuds/anactoriatalksback) for the beta!
> 
> You can find me [@triedunture](https://twitter.com/triedunture) on Twitter.


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